


All Down To You

by Circumbendibustible



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Circumbendibustible/pseuds/Circumbendibustible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Final instalment of Some Riots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Down To You

It’s raining when John leaves the welcome warmth of the taxi and lets himself into the flat. No sign of Sherlock and John wonders whether he’s in the lab or out doing whatever he does these days. John builds up the fire in the living room and ponders whether to go downstairs to see if Sherlock would like some tea, but decides against it. He doesn’t want to crowd Sherlock in any way.

It’s been three months since John moved back to Baker Street and the distance between Sherlock and him has not gotten any smaller. To be fair it hasn’t increased either, but then thinks John, it doesn’t really have to. The two of them are politely, _painfully_ friendly towards each other.  He misses the old Sherlock, the one who sulked and languished on the sofa, who drawled at him and left a trail of _stuff_ wherever he went. Sherlock has become the perfect flatmate and John hates it with a vengeance.  It’s boring. He’s bored.

As John plonks himself with a sigh into his armchair and clicks the remote to watch the news, he consciously fights his own restlessness, trying to make himself placid and serene. He gives it up at the first sight of the simpering politician to appear on the screen (how does Mycroft stand dealing with these transparently-manipulative poodles? John would go insane at just their presence in his breathing space) and switches channels hoping he might find something of interest but gives it up in disgust. He makes another cuppa and sits again, settling down with another sigh and picking up the book lying spine-up on the floor next to him.

John thinks about his chair. In all the time that he’d been gone Sherlock had kept it, and in precisely the same position. John’s bedroom, too, was in exactly the same condition and arrangement that John had left it, apart from the personal items he’d taken with him. He’s wondered if Sherlock’s reasoning had been one of certainty that John would come back, and thinks Sherlock’s arrogant enough to think that way. Then he thinks about the fact that he _has_ come back and wonders what that says about him. He’s had these circular thoughts before, tries to quell them. He knows there’s no reasoning them out. And really, he can’t accuse Sherlock of behaving arrogantly to him these days. He has no idea how he behaves around other people, but as a flat-mate Sherlock has been eerily normal.

He no longer uses the kitchen for his experiments, having set up 221c as a well-equipped laboratory. He spends a great deal of time down there. When John visits, usually to offer tea, Sherlock is friendly, though he doesn’t stop whatever he’s doing. He tells John what he’s working on if John asks, but there is never that spark in his eyes that used to accompany his explanations. If he feels enthusiastic he no longer shows it.

John misses it, that exuberance, that passion. That sense that anything could happen (‘could be dangerous, John!’). Sitting in his armchair, in his home, John feels dissatisfied. Incomplete.

The refrigerator is used for food and drink exclusively. Sherlock’s nauseating samples dwell in his own refrigerator downstairs. John never knows now what they are. Or where he gets them. Or why.

He does know that they don’t originate at Bart’s anymore. Molly’s told him that. Sherlock spends barely any time at all there, usually only visiting when Lestrade needs him to.  
  
When he’s in the flat with John, Sherlock is self-effacing, as though to present a small target. As though he thinks John is going to attack him, hurt him somehow. And Sherlock has every reason to feel that way, John thinks. He still has not forgiven himself for knocking Sherlock down.

There is a sense of isolation between them. John had hoped, when he moved in, that he and Sherlock might retrieve that sense of camaraderie they once shared, but they are awkward with each other.

In his chair, John recalls the constant interest his life had contained in the time before Moriarty, the excitement, the action. He acknowledges to himself that that was what he’d come back for, what he’d been looking for when he agreed to move back in. What he’d hoped for the two of them. But now he puts the book facedown on his lap and finally admits to himself that it’s not working, that they are no longer those people and that he’s not sure he can live like this anymore. He’s going to have to either leave, or make himself vulnerable by actively seeking Sherlock’s friendship.

                                                                             xxx

Sherlock raises his head from the microscope’s eyepiece when he hears the front door open. He waits, listening for the pause that sometimes follows the door closing and when it comes he tries to keep calm, to suppress the uncontrollable anticipation he feels whenever he knows John is coming down to the lab. He breathes quietly but can’t help the tension that thrums throughout his whole system. But then the first stair of the upper flight creaks and Sherlock knows John’s not coming after all as he listens to John’s steady steps climbing up to 221b.

Sherlock releases his expectant breath and feels that inescapable pang of disappointment in the pit  of his stomach.

He knows he shouldn’t hold it against John, that John chooses to spend so little time with him. When John agreed to move in to 221b Sherlock was deliriously happy inside and decorously amenable outwardly, and he promised himself he would keep his distance from John. If John wanted his company, then John could decide when and where. John would set the pace. Sherlock had been so hopeful that John would be friendly (never mind Sherlock’s ridiculous, hopeless hope that they could again be more than friends – he barely acknowledges that to himself), that there would be that comfortable companionship they’d had when they first knew each other.  But it is painfully obvious to Sherlock that John prefers the space there is between them and he swallows his disappointment again because John’s happiness and comfort mean more to him than his own.

                                                                              XXX

John is smiling at Sherlock again as he hands over yet another cup of tea. Sherlock has never drunk so much in his life, but when it’s John offering with such obvious goodwill he will never say no. Something has changed – John seems more open to Sherlock, who is shyly welcoming him back into more of his life than he’d hoped would be the case. The last two weeks have gone some way towards renewing their friendship, and if Sherlock’s unobserved expression is wistful when he looks at John, even he himself is unaware of the fact.

He is, however, very much aware of his own feelings and sometimes he resents John for opening them up for him in the first place. Occasionally he wonders what kind of person he’d have been by now if he hadn’t borrowed a certain phone all those years ago. When his feelings are particularly raw, he finds himself wishing he had none at all. But then he remembers what his life was like before John entered it, how lonely and bored he was, and it’s a measure of how far he’s come (how much he has matured, Mycroft would say) that he would not exchange the present for the past no matter how painful it is.

John’s behaviour towards Sherlock is undoubtedly friendly but no more than that. Even the nature of his friendship with Sherlock is careful, watchful. Wary. On the surface everything is hail-fellow-well-met. Cups of tea.  Enquiries as to Sherlock’s cases. Comments about the weather, shopping, even crap telly.

Sherlock hates it.

But what he doesn’t know, what John takes great pains to keep to himself are the memories of those few sweet months that he shared with the death-defying, miraculous Sherlock, there in the Baker Street flat. He’s back in his old room upstairs and at first he was so overwhelmed by his recollections, he had to rearrange the furniture. He got as far as buying new bedding; at least going to bed no longer resembled an ambush by so-familiar bed linen, but the bed itself – he remembers the times he held Sherlock in its embrace, the old feeling of security when he knew Sherlock was safe and home and _his_.

He’s not game to even look at Sherlock’s room, which they had shared regularly (when how much noise they made was not an issue).

In some ways he’s grateful that their breakup was so awful, so entire – he knows there’s no way back to what they’d had together. Too much muddy water under the bridge, too complete the conflagration that burnt it to ashes behind them. There are things he doesn’t dwell on; he’s moved on. They can be friends now, if they ignore the past, and John very deliberately does so.

Most of the time.

Except sometimes in his bed.

And he would be utterly amazed if Sherlock (who notices everything – and this is hardly subtle, though John is genuinely unconscious of it) drew his attention to the fact that John _never_ sits on the sofa. That he never _looks_ at it. Goes out of his way not to touch it. If John was more conscious of it he would see that Sherlock never sits on it either. The sofa is the elephant in the room and Sherlock wishes he could acknowledge both it and what it represents. Saddle it up and charge down the street like Hannibal – waving the truth before John like a banner. Because John doesn’t know the truth of what he saw on the sofa that last day before he really left and Sherlock can’t fathom how he can tell him. They’re not like that anymore.

So Sherlock’s grateful just to have John here at all and he’s not going to push for anything else. He’s mindful that what he wants from John is for him to be happy. Sherlock will not jeopardise that for anything – not even his own happiness.  
                                                                                  xxx

John is on his way up the stairs when he hears Sherlock’s and an unfamiliar voice. Must be a case, he thinks. As he enters the room he looks at the stranger, a youngish, good-looking man wearing an open-necked shirt and smart-casual trousers. He is sitting right on the edge of the sofa, a cup of tea in his hands and an earnest look on his strangely familiar face. The conversation stops upon John’s entry and Sherlock looks inexplicably anxious as he introduces them, somewhat diffidently, to each other.

“This is Mr Sorensen, John. He was just leaving.” John frowns at Sherlock’s patently dishonest statement – it’s obvious Sorensen has only just begun to drink his tea - but Sorensen shifts nervously and almost spills it in his haste to put the cup down.

John suspects something is up, but can’t think what it might be. He sits himself down in his armchair and leans back. He feels a bit bloody-minded.

“Do finish your tea, please, Mr Sorensen, don’t leave on my account.”

The man looks at Sherlock as if for reassurance, and Sherlock looks sideways at John. He clears his throat. “Yes, do.”

There is silence for a beat, other than the sound of Sorensen’s cup clattering against the saucer as he lifts it off the table.

“So, Mr Sorensen,” John says, “Are you here for a case? You’ll be in good hands.”

“Huh,” the man coughs, “yes, a case, yeah.”

Sorensen’s tea obviously goes down the wrong way and he coughs again, covering his mouth.

Sherlock  jumps in, saying “I’ve declined the case, John,” too quickly. He sees John’s eyes narrow suspiciously. What does it matter to John? He never interferes in Sherlock’s cases anymore and this one, of all the chances... does he suspect? No, Sherlock thinks, John is not that subtle.

“Well,” says Sorensen, standing and replacing his now empty cup back in its saucer, “must go. Things to do...” he sounds almost manically cheerful as he makes his way to the door. “Stay in touch, won’t you,” he says and then John can almost hear him groan at the fury on Sherlock’s face at these words.

Sorensen turns and almost scurries out the door. His footsteps can be heard as they tap hurriedly down the stairs and they hear the street door slam behind him.

Sherlock exhales rather loudly and John turns to him. “What was all that about?” he asks.

Sherlock’s eyes widen guilelessly, and John knows whatever comes out of his mouth won’t be worth the soundwaves it’s carried on.

“Just, you know, a case, John. Not even a three. Waste of time and tea really. Speaking of which would you like a cup, John?”

“Seemed very personal, the way he spoke to you? Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”

Sherlock panics. He’s been longing for John to get involved in his cases but does it have to be this one? He watches John’s expression go from enquiring to suspicious to closed and throws himself at the only chance he has to fix it.  
  
“Well, yes, John, we do know each other a little as ... acquaintances. I haven’t seen him for a long time. He only looked me up to ask for my assistance, but, as I said – barely a three.”

John’s face relaxes a little. He believes Sherlock, though he’s pretty sure he hasn’t heard the full story. And Sorensen, John’s seen him before ... somewhere. Why does he look so familiar?

“He seemed very nervous,” he comments, “are you sure you can’t help him?” John doesn’t know why he’s pursuing this. He’s been so careful before now not be intrusive, not to hassle Sherlock into allowing him back into the work. But he’s also aware that maintaining the distance between them even at this professional level is becoming untenable. He doesn’t want to  live this way anymore.

Maybe Sherlock sees this, because suddenly he’s falling over to explain the case (which to be honest is at least a seven and possibly more).

“Dagnar Sorensen, 39 years of age, met Professor Grosvenor some two years ago, when he was employed by the latter to clear his garden which had become very overgrown. They began a sexual relationship shortly after they met. Grosvenor lives in Essex and is a palaeontologist known for his methodical, thorough palaeontology – particularly for his specific field of interest; tyrannosauridae. His fieldwork and academic research and findings into the evolution of these therapods is widely accepted as the definitive study in this competitive field. He is also noted for his wider studies of evolution at all levels. Even I have found some of his work on molecular evolution useful in the work I am currently engaged in.”

John looks a little blank. Sherlock ploughs on. “I’m studying decomposition at a molecular level, John, particularly the rate at which molecules die. I’m hoping to develop a more accurate method for determining time of death.”

And John is amazed, all over again. “That’s ... why hasn’t anybody else...that’s brilliant, Sherlock!” Sherlock actually blushes, his heart thumping out rapid beats at the expression in John’s eyes.

“Tell me more about the case,” John says.

Sherlock is brought back to the present with an anxious tightening in his chest. He doesn’t _want_ to talk about the case, not that there is one. He has to turn it down. It’s too fraught. But he hasn’t seen John like this for so long – how can he shut the subject down? He swallows his anxiety and ploughs on.

“Grosvenor is in his sixties and in the past decade he has become agoraphobic. Not just reclusive but a complete shut-in. It happens, sometimes. He still submits research findings to scientific journals, but he has not set foot in the field or attended any symposia for at least ten years. Sorensen became not just his gardener, but his lover, his factotum and his conduit to the outside world. Sorensen showed me letters written to him by the professor, who, unlikely as it seems, genuinely loves him, and for whom Sorensen does seem genuinely to return the feeling.” Sherlock is pacing now, as he lays the facts bare.

John feels so nostalgic it’s almost unbearable.  
  
“Ten months ago, Sorensen went away for the weekend to visit friends, and whilst he was gone Professor Grosvenor surprised and was attacked by a burglar. Grosvenor was badly beaten but defended himself with the poker, killing the burglar, who, in the course of the altercation rolled into the fireplace, where he was basically slow-cooked (John winces). He was burned quite thoroughly whilst Grosvenor lay unconscious. When he came to, Grosvenor called the local plods who came and took his statement and the burglar’s body away. They informed him that he would be required to give evidence at the inquest and were very sympathetic about the agoraphobia. Subsequent enquiries have failed to identify the burglar. The case has not come before the coroner yet.

‘Sorensen says he knew nothing of this till he went home to Essex, where he was shocked at the incident and insisted that he be taken straight to Grosvenor’s place, where, even more shocked, he was told that he no longer had a home and his belongings were left for him on the veranda. He pleaded with Grosvenor to discuss the situation but was met with silence. The letters he wrote; some posted, some hand delivered through  the door, have received no response and Grosvenor has never  otherwise communicated with him. Sorenson has persisted in his attempts to open communications with the professor, who has persisted in ignoring every attempt. Sorensen has several theories as to why his partner has rejected him, but his only means of monitoring his mental state is by reading the professor’s articles for ‘Nature’ and ‘Scientific American’ and other scientific journals. On that basis it is evident that Grosvenor is still in full possession of his marbles.

‘Sorensen came to me in desperation when he realised almost a year has gone by. He is concerned that Grosvenor possibly thinks that he was implicated in the burglary and has thus cut him off. He has requested that I find a way to convince him otherwise and ultimately bring a meeting between the two about.

‘As I said, John, a three at most.”

“Sounds more than a three to me,” John says, genuinely interested, “or has the criminal class in London become so sophisticated in their misdeeds that the standard’s been permanently raised? Are threes the new sevens?”

Sherlock laughs a surprised ‘Ha!’ at John’s rating of the case as a seven, as Sherlock himself had.

John giggles, his grin so genuine that Sherlock can’t help but be warmed by it.

“I think you should take the case, Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock is torn between his desire to please John and his fear of all that could go wrong if he does.

“I um ... thought maybe I could help ...” John’s face falls a little as Sherlock hesitates. With a visible effort (how can a man reach John’s age and still be utterly transparent?) he wipes his expression blank.

“Never mind,” John tells him, “I expect you’re much too busy with murder and other mayhem to take such a mundane case.”  He stands, turns. “Cuppa, Sherlock?”

And Sherlock panics. This is the most open, the most receptive, the most _interested_ that John’s been since he moved back to Baker Street, hell, since he returned from Afghanistan, and Sherlock doesn’t want to spoil that.   
  
“Yes, please, John, I’d like some tea.” His eyes track John to the kitchen. John’s disappointed, he can see that in the slump of his shoulders, and Sherlock will _not_ be the cause of that slump if he can help it. He hums into the silence. “I don’t actually have much on at the moment,” he says and watches John’s shoulders straighten. “I suppose it does sound _slightly_ interesting. The human interaction aside, I _am_ an avid T-rex fan.”

John turns around, shock has dropped his jaw. “Really?” he asks, his face showing his disbelief. “Get it on? Electric Warrior? You?”

Sherlock frowns. “What are you talking about, John?”

John grins at him again, confusing Sherlock even more.

“It’s just – I never would have picked you for a glam rocker. Silver jumpsuits and high heels!” John laughs outright. “Did you go the whole hog, Sherlock?”

“I ... hogs, John? How on earth did we move from dinosaurs to _sus scrofa domesticus_?”

It’s John’s turn to look puzzled. “Sus what?” he asks Sherlock.

“Pigs, John, pigs!” Sherlock’s forehead and the top of his nose are wrinkled in frustration.

John just looks at him, running through the conversation, trying to work out just where it went askew. “Oh,” he giggles, “dinosaurs!”

“Indeed, John, tyrannosaurs, do keep up.”

“Not the band then,” John says, obviously deeply amused.

Sherlock’s mouth is open, as though he finds himself speechless. The expression in his eyes is one of utter befuddlement and John can’t help it, he laughs out loud. Sherlock closes his mouth abruptly and John sees that he’s about to go into an epic sulk. The familiarity of it punches him in the heart but he stops laughing before Sherlock can make it that far.

“Of course it’s dinosaurs,” he says, still smiling. “It’s just, there’s a band called T-rex, Sherlock. I thought  at first you were talking about them.”

“Ah,” says Sherlock, his face clearing. “Well, no, John, the t-rex to which I was referring was in fact the large, carnivorous reptile. Now extinct. ”

“Yeah, I get that now,” John says, “and yeah, that _will_ make the case interesting.”

“It is to be hoped that that will be the case, John,” says Sherlock, and John recognises the pomposity  as something Sherlock calls upon when he’s embarrassed.  Sherlock watches a momentary fondness cross John’s face before he turns back to the kettle.

“Your – your assistance would be welcome, John,” he says, tentatively, “I shall probably have to break in to the professor’s premises. You could be my back-up.”  
John turns, holds out a cup to Sherlock. He is beaming. “Yes, Sherlock, I could do that. So what’s the plan?”                                                                          

                                                                               xxx

It’s been three weeks since Sherlock took Sorensen’s case and he’d shelved it of necessity in order to work an urgent case for Lestrade. John had helped on that one, too, a particularly nasty series of murders of homeless teenagers which he had traced back to a Dickensian-style villain a la Fagin, whose rival had decided that he was losing too much business through their activities. In the course of that case they had exposed a Member of Parliament’s financing of a neo-nazi group who were behind several cases of violent disruption of peaceful protests about foxhunting, gay marriage and GMO labelling, among others.

The case has seen Sherlock and John break down barrier after barrier between them. How could it not, John thinks, fondly, when working together has been so much like times past. Watching and listening to Sherlock’s brilliance – undimmed by time but still flabbergasting after John has been away from it so long – it’s no wonder he is dazzled yet again. Sherlock has seen John’s smile for the first time in such a long time; his true smile, guileless and genuine, surely happy, he has felt John’s sturdy arm holding him back from the knife in a rather nasty individual’s hand before watching him disarm said individual. There have been takeaways and Angelo’s and summer is here.

In the subsequent lull, John urges Sherlock to get on with the ‘glam rock case’ as he calls it. Sherlock has googled T-rex and understands John’s amusement. Having listened to ‘Get It On’ he is miserable for a day as it keeps circulating through his brain, a terrible earworm. And what the hell does ‘bang a gong’ mean anyway? He complains about it to John, who laughs at him, and Sherlock would think himself well avenged if he knew that John has not been able to quite rid himself of the mental image of Sherlock in silver spandex, platform shoes and eyeshadow.

However, at John’s insistence and against his better judgment, Sherlock contacts Sorensen and invites him to Baker Street to work out a plan of action.

 London is unseasonably warm as the three of them pour over the architects’ plans and Sherlock smiles as John divests himself of his jumper. It’s as Sorensen rolls his own shirtsleeves up that John sees the scarring to the man’s arms and is blindsided by recognition. Unthinkingly he grabs Sorensen’s left hand, capturing it in a brutal grip and pushing the sleeve up further to expose the ugly track mark scars on his arm. Faded now, no new ones, not on the arm anyway. John lets go violently, overwhelmed by his recollection of the last time he saw the man, when the marks were new and raw and oozing, when he lay cradled against Sherlock’s chest ...

John whirls around to face Sherlock, his face thunderous, and Sherlock knows the worst has happened. He’d really begun to think he might be able to escape it. Dagnar Sorensen is so different from the strung-out scarecrow he was two years before.

“John,” he says, as things fall to pieces, “please.”

But John is already halfway down the stairs, leaving Sherlock in shock at the utter betrayal he saw in John’s eyes. That expression reminds him of something, some fleeting moment in their past.  
And John hears nothing but a junkie excusing himself, sees nothing but Sherlock with a tourniquet on his arm and the almost naked partner he’d chosen to share himself with. The memory still makes John feel sick, even after all this time.

He pounds the footpath, going nowhere, planless. He is so angry people move out of his way but he’s not conscious of anybody else. What an idiot he’s been, thinking for one moment that Sherlock has changed. The man’s still manipulative, insensitive, _cruel_.  Playing John like a fucking puppeteer. Inviting him back in, to the case, to his life, and making such a fool of him. And he is a fool. He knew there was something off about the whole case, about Sorensen, about Sherlock’s interaction with him. John’s face is as clenched as his fists as he reaches the park and throws himself onto a bench.

His phone’s been buzzing in his pocket like a swarm of bees ever since he left 221B. He pulls it out now, with bitter humour, wonders what creative explanations Sherlock will have for this one. “Oh, didn’t I tell you, John? Yes you’ve met before, when I was getting high and shagging him. Yes, he has changed since then, he’s quite buff now, isn’t he?” 

He scrolls down through the many texts.

John SH

John come back, please SH

John you are mistaken in your belief SH

Please John let me explain SH

(Yeah right, thinks John)

It’s not what you think SH

John you’re wrong about this. Come back and let me explain SH

What you saw 2 years ago is not what you think it was SH

Nothing sexual ever took place between Dagnar and I SH

(So that makes shooting up with the rat ok? And anyway, why should he believe Sherlock? He knows the man lies, can’t be trusted. This is just further confirmation of the fact.)

I never saw him again till he turned up 3 weeks ago asking for my help SH

I didn’t want to take his case, John, you talked me into it remember? SH

(Oh, so it’s all my fault now)

Please John, come back so I can talk to you SH

You have to believe me John. There has been nobody since I met you SH

I couldn’t SH

Even the thought is repellent SH

(You’re telling me!)

John you must know how much I want you SH

I love you John. Please come back SH

                                                                            xxx

It’s hours since John left and Sherlock is sitting miserably in John’s chair. Dagnar left shortly after John, apologetic and embarrassed. Once upon a time he would never have escaped Sherlock unscathed, but Sherlock is honest and blames himself for this outcome. If he’d only refused the case, or even told John outright who his client was – he could have had a conversation with John that might have removed all doubt about what Dagnar had been to him last time John had seen them together. But Sherlock had found it too hard, especially in the light of John’s renewed friendship and his interest in the case. Sherlock is an idiot. And he regrets the texts he’s sent to John. Too much, too soon. Telling the man he loves him – even without the complication of Dagnar that revelation would have scared John off.

Mycroft had told him. Take it slowly, ease yourself back into his life. John loves you, he’ll come round, he’ll come back.

That had been the day after John had hit Sherlock, when he’d been staying with his brother while he convalesced. Sherlock, wincing against the pain in his bruised temple, had been convinced that was the end. The look on John’s face as he accused Sherlock of infidelity had crushed Sherlock whenever he recalled it.

“That’s it, Mycroft,” he’d said, despairingly, “he’ll never come back to me now.”

But Mycroft had been much more positive about the situation and Sherlock had almost screamed with frustration about his brother’s Pollyanna-like optimism.

He’d lost his temper with Mycroft.

“How can you be so blind!” he had shouted. “Did you not see John’s face?  He hates me!”

“I don’t think he does, Sherlock,” his brother had said, calm in the face of Sherlock’s rage.

“Oh and you’re the great relationship expert aren’t you, Mr Caring-is-not-an-advantage! You know so much about emotions and feelings! Please, do feel free to advise me on matters of the heart, oh Great White Hope of the lovelorn. You’re wasted in Government; clearly you were meant to be an agony aunt for News of the World!”

Mycroft had moved closer during this tirade and as Sherlock huffed his frustration out his brother rested one hand on his arm. Patted him.

“I do believe he’ll come back, brother,” he said quietly. “You forget I know the man, quite well. He needs you, just as much as you need him.”

“Gah!” Sherlock sayed, brushing Mycroft’s hand away and pacing.  
  
Mycroft turned around the room, following him. He understood he had one chance to settle this.

“You’ve never understood, Sherlock, why John Watson plunged into every danger your calling involved him in.”

“He likes danger, the adrenaline rush,” Sherlock said instantly. “The battleground.”

“I thought that once upon a time too, Sherlock. That’s before I got to know the man.”

“So tell me, if it wasn’t those things what else is there. I do know he wanted to keep me safe. And I didn’t even let him have that, really.”

“John thinks he’s a failure, Sherlock. As far as he’s concerned, he failed in both aspects of his service – and for him it really was service. The soldier could neither prevent the violence of war, nor could the doctor save the lives of his comrades in arms. When he was shot he was trying to stitch together a young man who died because John passed out mid-operation – he himself was bleeding to death.

You came very close to never having the man.”

“I know that,” Sherlock said, and he shuddered. Imagine a world without John Watson in it.

“But he’s not a failure. I thought he knew that. I thought he knew how much of a failure he’s not. I told him all the time, how amazing he is, how incredible.”

“Sherlock, I can guarantee you that John feels he failed you at every level, but particularly because he couldn’t stop you from using again.”

“Ach!” Sherlock almost spat. He came to a standstill, grinding his fists into his hair. “It was only the once. Why, why, why did he have to come back that day? The day before or the day after; no problem.”

“Yes, but he did, and you must realise that he probably thought the whole time he was away that you had chosen the drugs over him. And, of course, Mr Sorensen.”

“You knew about Dagnar, then?”

Mycroft looked fondly down his shapely, patrician nose at Sherlock, who sighed.

“Of course you did,” he said. “Had the place all wired up didn’t you?”

“Actually, Sherlock, I haven’t had surveillance equipment in Baker Street for a long time. But I was keeping an eye on you when I realised you’d thrown John out. Even so, I nearly missed Sorensen’s visit. I had him followed and only stopped when I saw that you no longer were in contact with him.”

“So you knew about the drugs then, that time.”

“I didn’t know, but I suspected.”  
  
“You’ve never trusted me, Mycroft. You haven’t since the first time you found out about the drugs. You spied on me for years.” Sherlock’s voice still bore a grudge.

“Yes, I did, and I occasionally regret it now. But I didn’t know how else to keep you safe, Sherlock, I was so afraid you’d relapse – that I’d find you dead of an overdose.”

“Yes, that would have been embarrassing, wouldn’t it.”

“No, Sherlock, not embarrassing! It would have broken me forever,” Mycroft protested.

“Oh really, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered, “next you’ll be saying you love me.”

“Of course I love you, Sherlock. How could I not? You’re of my blood. You’re my brother.” Mycroft said plaintively. “Why else would I worry about you?”

“Because you’re a control freak, Mycroft,” Sherlock responded, “Because you wanted to know just how untrustworthy I was. So you could use it against me...” But Sherlock looked at his brother now, and Mycroft’s expression was so open he could see the hurt that Sherlock’s words were causing him. Not that long ago, he’d have been triumphant, that he’d scored over Mycroft, but things had changed and Sherlock no longer saw things as a competition between them. Nevertheless he thought Mycroft should be made to see that his hamfisted micromanagement attempts were over the top. He went on the attack again.

“It doesn’t matter what the reason, Mycroft, the fact is that you invaded my privacy systematically and for years.”

“Yes I know Sherlock, I did, and a couple of times, if you recall, that saved your life. But I stopped when John Watson came into the picture. It took me a while to see that he had taken over from me. That time you located and destroyed all the surveillance materials in your flat – I never replaced it. I knew I didn’t need to.”

“Yes, well my little escapade with Dagnar must have confirmed you in your theory that without John I’d just relapse.”

“I admit I was concerned on that count, Sherlock, but surely you’ve noticed that I no longer have you under observation, not even after John moved out of Baker Street. I thought it was time to trust you, little brother. It scared me, making myself stop. But here you are. Still standing and drug-free.

Look, Sherlock, I know how difficult your adolescence was, how badly you were treated by Father and how Mummy never stood up for you. I’ve always held them responsible for the severity of your drug habit. I wish I’d been there, but I was so young, too, and ...well, I was the firstborn. I spent my life jumping through hoops for that man. I had to be the best at everything. And I was, but it cost me a great deal. I am a very good diplomat, but I have very few friends. It has taken me many years away from Father to realise that caring is not a disadvantage. I have always cared for you, Sherlock, even at your most desperate, and I believe that concern, overbearing though you may have found my methods –“

“You admit it.”  
  
“-Kept you alive till you reached a level of maturity at which you could attempt, successfully, to get over the addiction that kept you a child for so long.”

Sherlock stared at his brother, scepticism painting his face.

“What do you mean maturity?” he scoffed. “I stopped using because I wanted to, so I could work with Lestrade.”

“Yes, I know, but even that realisation was something you had to be ready for. Oh, Sherlock, don’t look so cynical. And it’s true. Addicts of all kinds stop maturing emotionally at the age they become addicted. It’s known as emotional retardation. I ask you to be honest with yourself Sherlock. When did your emotional maturity ever match your intellectual development?”

“Psychobabble, Mycroft, I can’t believe you’d take that seriously!”

“I may not have, had I not seen the truth of it in your example. Sherlock, you started using drugs during your adolescence. What do you and a teenage boy have in common?”  Mycroft counted the points on long slender fingers.  “Attention seeking, petulance, impatience with others, a mistaken belief in your own indestructibility, refusal to request or accept assistance, self-righteousness...the list goes on.”

“Huh,” Sherlock said, and it dawned on Mycroft that this conversation was actually hurting his brother, “and you say you care. Why bother if I’m that bad?” He turned his back on Mycroft, who moved closer but didn’t attempt to make Sherlock face him.

“Because even at your worst you weren’t ever so bad, Sherlock, that I would ever not want to be your brother. Because at your worst you only ever hurt yourself. Because you are also sensitive to the point where you shut everybody out because you’re afraid they’ll hurt you, and you overcompensate for an inferiority complex which was implanted in you by your own _father_ , for God’s sake, and may he rot in hell for it. Because often you can’t make sense of people but you try, you really try, to help them, even though your pride wants the world to think you only do it to entertain yourself... because you’re my little brother, and yes, Sherlock, because I do love you.”

Sherlock bowed his head.

“And because I’ve seen you develop over the past few months, deal with adult problems in an adult way, Sherlock, and I’ve never been more proud of you.

I know John will come back to you because he also knows these things about you and loves you for them, the good and the bad. He has always seen the truth of you, just as you’ve seen him, and he needs you Sherlock.”

And Mycroft had been right. When he went back to work and Sherlock returned to Baker Street he decided to take a chance. He visited John and invited him back and John, wonder of wonders, had said yes.

Now Sherlock, sitting in John’s chair, knees up and long toes gripping the seat, is struck by the irony that they could have made such progress only to have it derailed by something Sherlock is guiltless of. Alright, apart from the drug use. He has run out of things to say to John by text. He needs to see him,  to talk to him in person, but the day passes slowly and then so does the night and Sherlock still sits in the chair, as miserable now as he’s ever been.

More so, really, because he understands that he’s finally run out of chances with John.

He remembers now, what John’s expression was, when he recognised Dagnar and looked at Sherlock. John’ eyes had held the same emotion Sherlock had felt for that one brief moment at the pool, all that time ago, when he thought John was Moriarty.

The difference is that John still believes that Sherlock _has_ betrayed him.

                                                                                    xxx

John tries to be polite to Harry and her ‘told you so’ crowing, but he’s glad to be out of her flat. He is thoroughly disheartened by the fact that she is his only bolthole till he finds somewhere to rent, but as he climbs the stairs to 221B he assures himself that that is, in fact, the only course of action open to him. His hope that Sherlock won’t be there bites the dust as he sees the man perched in John’s own armchair, phone clasped in his tight fist. The air around him reminds John of unexploded ordnance.

 Sherlock draws a breath, opens his mouth to speak and John says “Don’t, Sherlock. Just don’t. For once in your life keep it shut.”

“John, plea –“

“Uh-uh Sherlock, not another word – I’m this close to hitting you again.”

“I don’t care, John, I need to talk to you. I’m not going to let you leave me without a word in my favour.”

“In your favour, Sherlock? There’s not a thing you can say that will make me change my mind – nothing you tell me will excu-“

“Then it won’t hurt you to listen, John,” and Sherlock’s out of his chair, his face in John’s face, so close the flecks in his irises stand out like the faults in labradorite.

John makes a frustrated noise and turns away. Starts walking upstairs.

“Dagnar was my dealer before I knew you, John, when I still used regularly, when Lestrade’s drug busts actually made sense. When I met Lestrade I was high and it stayed that way until he suggested that if I _gave up_ getting high I could work with him.”

John is halfway up the stairs.

“John, please listen, please.”

John tries to shut Sherlock out of his bedroom but Sherlock wedges his foot in the door and pushes with all his might. Not once has he stopped talking.

“I didn’t completely stop until you moved in with me, John. You somehow kept me straight, and it wasn’t even a sacrifice.”  
  
“Well hooray for me then, Sherlock. Now piss off!”

“No, I won’t. And yes you were the best thing that ever happened to me, John, so when you left me there wasn’t much left.”

“I didn’t leave you, Sherlock, you threw me out. Of. My. Home. Don’t use me as your excuse for shooting up. Or sleeping with a bloody junky.”

“You know I didn’t sleep with him, John. At least be honest with yourself about that.”

And John has to admit that’s true, that he’s known for a while that Sherlock wasn’t unfaithful to him. Not sexually, anyway.

“Doesn’t matter. Don’t care. You were straight back into the drugs. That’s why you wanted me gone, isn’t it. So you could indulge again.”  
  
 Sherlock laughs without mirth at the irony of that. The whole point of him seeking out the oblivion of the speedball in the first place was that he wanted to forget. To negate, nullify, numb his feelings. John had left. Sherlock had pushed him and he had gone.  
  
And here was John thinking the exact opposite.  
  
“I didn’t ... I just wanted to feel better, after you left. It hurt me so much I couldn’t bear it.”

“Didn’t. Leave. You.  Sherlock. Was exiled. Still don’t know why. Doesn’t matter now.”

He’s trying to close his overpacked suitcase. He’ll never do it on his own. “You _could_ give me a hand, here,” he tells Sherlock.

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock counters. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Well there’s a bloody turn around,” John huffs. “Back in the day you couldn’t wait for me to go.”

“It’s not true, John. I _never_ wanted you to leave me. I just ... I was wrong. I made a mistake. Please, John, stop and listen. I’ll help you with your luggage if you’ll just hear me out first.”

Sherlock sees the moment at which John stops resisting the conversation. He sits on the edge of his bed, looking up at Sherlock. His face is carefully expressionless but Sherlock recognises the curiosity behind his eyes. John, he sees, genuinely doesn’t know, still, why Sherlock behaved as he had. Sherlock is determined to give John the truth, he at least owes him that.

“All right, Sherlock, tell me why. I must say I’ve often wondered. Why you’d hurt me like that. When I loved you so much.”

Inside his heart, Sherlock winces at John’s use of the past tense.

“I was so angry with you, John. I felt so betrayed.”  
  
John scoffs. “How did I betray you, Sherlock? No matter how awful you were, how hard you made it to be around you, I stayed and I tried and tried and tried. It was you who threw me out of my home. Our home. You gave me an ultimatum and nothing I could say or do would change your mind.”

“I thought you were leaving. Going back to the army. I saw the letter. You never told me you had plans.”

John’s mouth drops open. “You thought ... you _decided_ that I planned to leave you and return to Afghanistan and I wouldn’t even _tell_ you? You arrogant tosser! You never even asked me! You just decided to try me and condemn me on a hunch? You tossed me out on my ear and then you _deleted_ me because you thought I was a big enough bastard that I’d leave you without a word? Jesus Sherlock, I thought you prided yourself on _logic_!”

“Don’t you understand, John, I was _scared!_ I could see how damaged I was, how ugly I had become and I didn’t want you to see it. I knew I would lose you. And you kept telling me to _be myself_ , but what you meant was ‘be the Sherlock you were before you disappeared’ and I couldn’t be that. That Sherlock didn’t exist anymore. Doesn’t exist anymore.”  
  
“I _had_ to tell you when you were being an arsehole. You were unbearable, Sherlock. You were hurting people. I didn’t know why or how I could help you. You were so callous. It was such a destructive force, especially in your sensitive area of work. Damaged people need sensitivity, but you seemed incapable of anything other callousness. Of course I had to speak up. It hurt to see you so cruel.”

“But I’d always had difficulty with other people’s feelings, John, and I couldn’t understand why it was suddenly a problem for you.”

“There was a difference, Sherlock. I thought about it a lot, after you threw me out and I eventually realised that you’d lost all your kindness. Before, even when you couldn’t relate to people’s sensitivities and emotions, you weren’t cruel. Impatient, frustrated, irritated, yes, and you never tried to hide that. But you were still kind. You wouldn’t choose to hurt someone’s feelings, if you could avoid it. But afterwards, you did a lot of damage to people who needed help. You were merciless, Sherlock, like someone pulling the wings off a fly, and it hurt to see that.”

He looks down and away from Sherlock.  “You hurt me, too,” he says.

“I know,” Sherlock tells him, “I meant to. I’m sorrier than I can say. But all those arguments we had, they built up and built up in my mind till I thought you’d just leave me when something better came along.”

“And you thought the Army letter was that something better.”  
  
John’s voice has lost its indignation. He can see Sherlock is genuinely trying to answer his questions honestly.

“John, you know that a callus forms on an area of the skin hardened by repetitive friction.  Well, I know that callousness is formed in much the same way. To be callous is to be thick-skinned, hard. I had to become callous in order to survive while I was dealing with Moriarty’s associates. I wouldn’t have lived if I hadn’t, and I certainly wouldn’t have been able to bring about their undoing if I had been too sensitive to deal with their ... collateral damage.”

John draws a sharp breath and winces at the term, yet he must acknowledge the rightness of the word. Sherlock had, indeed, been at war and though John doesn’t know the exact nature of his tactics he is aware that innocent people had been caught up in the fray. Far from being insouciant about his actions, Sherlock had convinced himself he was a monster and John had had to get him through that. It had helped that John suffered similar guilt about the unavoidable mess he’d made of people’s lives in the process of trying to make things better. He was able to talk with conviction about the sacrifices made by both warrior and civilian in times of great conflict.

“Sherlock, those first few months after you came back, you were far from callous. If anything you were _over_ sensitive. I thought you’d got over the ordeal when you started consulting again. You were much more yourself then.”

“Well of course you saw bits of the old Sherlock, John, after all the work is who I am, nothing changed in my interest or my deductive abilities, but it couldn’t be helped – I’d developed a callus, a spiritual one if you like – and it made me insensitive to other people’s feelings. I can see that _now_ , but at the time I was too ... thick-skinned to see it for what it was.” 

“Thats very ... existential of you, Sherlock. Surprisingly so.”

Sherlock looks at John questioningly, and John can see that he’s trying to work out whether John is taking the piss or not. He seems reassured by John’s steady gaze back at him.  
  
“And I never deleted you, John. I couldn’t. I _lived_ on those memories. Please don’t go. Please don’t hate me.”  
  
“I don’t hate you, Sherlock,” John says, somewhat calmer. “But I can’t stay. I’ll always be your friend, I could never forget you, either. But I’ve made too many ... concessions to have you in my life and each time I let you back in I lose something from it – my dignity, my peace of mind, my home. I’m not prepared to lose again.”  
  
“But John ...”  
  
“No. _Just_ ... no.” He struggles with his bag again. “You did say you’d help, Sherlock,” he says, and Sherlock did say that, and has to help.  
  
All the way down the stairs two flights of stairs Sherlock carries John’s luggage, closed but bursting at the seams, and talking, arguing, persuading, cajoling and in the end begging, but John is adamant, even while he bundles his stuff into a cab, that he will not change his mind. He is kind about it, no longer angry or abrupt. But as the taxi drives away from the kerb, Sherlock has to face the fact that he will not get his way this time. And several hours later, fighting his own mind for the wherewithal to resist the urge to chemically obliterate the painful truth that he will _never_ be able to see John as just a friend, he calls Dagnar and invites him over.   
  
                                                                                     xxx  
  
The bowl of soup in John’s lap is just this side of too hot as he watches the news. Outside the evening is drizzling, the full moon shining silver on the rain and the puddles in the street. When his phone alerts him to an incoming text he can’t help the spike in his heartbeat as he opens it up. It’s been ten days since he saw Sherlock and he’s kept himself as busy as he can so the absence doesn’t become a wasteland, yet he’s not only disappointed but angry when he sees the text is not from Sherlock but Dagnar Sorensen. He almost switches the mobile off but curiosity gets the better of him.  
  
Sherlock needs help, please come to Essex D Sorensen  
  
What a hide the man’s got.

No. Nice try, Sherlock JW

Sherlock told me to call you if he was in trouble. I’ve got his phone. DS

Sort it out yourselves. JW

Don’t know how. S inside house and unknown man has gone in too. DS

Please come. DS

I don’t know what to do. DS

John rolls his eyes. How stupid does Sherlock think he is?

Get S to call me. JW

I can’t he’s in the house

John’s phone rings and he answers quickly.

“What are you playing at Sherlock?”

“It’s Dagnar. Sherlock broke into the house through the tunnel and this bloke just went in.” He’s speaking very softly and John can hear the fear in his voice. John feels a slight frisson himself now, and he trusts his instincts – they’ve saved him not a few times before.

“How long since Sherlock went?”

“About twenty minutes. He gave me his phone – he can’t even call for help. “

“If this is Sherlock winding me up there’ll be a couple of broken jaws between you.”

“It’s not, Dr Watson, promise. Please come.”

‘What’s the address?”

When John disconnects from Sorensen he calls Mycroft.

“I think Sherlock may be in trouble, Mycroft,” he tells him. “I have to get to Essex asap. Can you help?”

“What’s my brother up to this time?” Mycroft asks, whilst simultaneously paging Anthea, and John only has time to pocket the Sig before he hears the discreet braking of a powerful motorcycle and heads straight downstairs. The bike’s on its way even before he’s got his helmet on but John knows Anthea’s skill set and has no fear for his safety; only Sherlock’s.

When the gps shows them the end of their destined street, Anthea kills the motor.

“Wait here,” John tells her, removing his helmet. “If we’re not out in ten, call Lestrade.”

“Right, gov,” she says and is just as surprised as he is at her words. He flashes her a grin as he takes off down the quiet residential street. It is not particularly well-lit, but he keeps to the shadows anyhow.

He recognises Dagnar, who walks toward him.

“Thank God you came,” he says, and John places a finger on his own lips to quieten the taller man down.

“Where’s Sherlock?” he asks in a vehement whisper. “Don’t tell me, show me.”

Dagnar turns back the way he came, motioning John to follow. They stop outside a large, dark house and Dagnar points. “He’s in there,” he tells John.

“Where’s this tunnel ?”

“Here.” Dagnar leads him two hundred metres past the house, to a low wall overgrown with ivy. Several straggling tall shrubs overshadow the wall .The grass is thick and rank; yellow and dry like straw. Dagnar stops, leans forward and pulls some of the grass back, exposing a large dirty hole.

“In there,” he says. “Sherlock found it last time we cased the place. I had no idea it existed till then. Sherlock went in there about ninety minutes ago and this bloke went in about twenty minutes later. He nearly caught me – I had to dive behind the wall.” His voice is becoming hoarse with the strain of whispering audibly.

“Right,” says John. “Is Sherlock armed?”

“I don’t think so,” Dagnar tells him, “but the other bloke had a –“

A muffled bang travels up through the hole in the ground, muffled but still recognisable as a gunshot.

“Sherlock!” John whispers, and he’s down the hole before his voice has finished the word.

“Dagnar, go and wait up the street – you’ll see a woman with a bike. She’ll look after you.”

 Sig in hand, now, he ducks beneath the low, earthen roof, somewhat claustrophobically.  The narrow tunnel is hot and close and John feels as though it is closing in on him. There is a sudden lifting of the foetid atmosphere as the tunnel widens and the ceiling rises and he feels a certain relief. He grips the gun more steadily and slows his steps as he nears the end of the tunnel which he can see is terminated by a heavy wooden door, standing ajar.

John stands behind the door and peers through the crack between the hinges. He can see Sherlock sprawled on the floor, his coat draped in graceless folds around him. There is blood on his pale face and his hair looks matted with it and he is not moving. Almost before he can think about it John throws the door open and lunges through it. A large man wearing a woolly hat is standing about three metres away from a still prone Sherlock, aiming straight-armed a pistol at him. John can see that the hand holding the gun is shaking. His split-second reaction has the man yelling in pain, holding his now-mangled hand clasped in the other.

“You bastard, you shot me!” he screams, as John kicks the man’s gun across the room.

“Shut up, if you want to stay alive,” John snarls at him as he goes down on his knees beside Sherlock. “If you’ve put a bullet in him I swear I’ll ...”

“I didn’t,” the man whines , “he fell...”

“John,” Sherlock moans, eyes suddenly open and fixed upon him.

“Sherlock, it’s okay, I’ll get you to a hospital right away.” He’s already got his phone out, trying to send a message. Sherlock’s long fingers unexpectedly fold themselves over both hand and phone, drawing John’s attention back solely to himself.

 “John, I’m all right,” he tells John.

“No, Sherlock, you clearly are not. There’s blood ...where did the bullet hit you?”

“Bullet? I haven’t been shot, John,” Sherlock looks confused. “He hit me from behind, look for a heavy, blunt weapon. A bludgeon. It fucking hurts.”

“I told you, mate, I didn’t shoot him!” the third man says.

“Well I didn’t fall over, either,” Sherlock tells him, acerbically. “You hit me from behind. You cad.”

John has an arm around Sherlock as he helps him to his knees.

 “John? I appreciate your medical attention but had you better not secure the miscreant?”

“You, keep still,” John demands, as he gets to his feet , still aiming the Sig at the injured man. For the first time he really takes in his surroundings.

The three of them are surrounded by bones. Large, semi-familiar fossilised bones. Dinosaur bones. Piles of them; vertebrae, hipbones, toes, some small and some huge. A massive jaw full of enormous teeth. God knows how many of them there are – he can see at least one complete skeleton, though many are simply piled in stacks. He can’t help but grin in amazement. Sherlock is watching him and when their eyes meet they each recognise the other’s wonder.

The shooter, though, is starting to make little sliding movements towards the door.  John quickly moves towards him and simultaneously one big pile of bones begins to move, to shift. A dark speck amongst the middle of the bones catches his eye and he realises it’s a bullet – so that’s where it went. John sets out to grab the fugitive just as one large fossilised bone falls away from the others, hitting the bloke on the head and knocking him out. 

John drags him away from the now ex-pile and checks him over. “Nothing broken, I don’t think,” he tells Sherlock. “Serves him right.”

“Pass me your phone, John” says Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock, you stay still. You may have a concussion.”

But Sherlock is on his feet, swaying a bit, it’s true, but upright. “I’m fine, John. Phone please!” and he snaps his fingers at John.

                                                                                           *

 “Yes, Lestrade, you heard me. Professor Grosvenor is not Professor Grosvenor.”

John can hear Lestrade over the phone. “Yes of course I’m right. Look at the facts. Grosvenor the great palaeontologist is also a recluse. Not many people have seen him ever, and those that have haven’t for years. He contacts the police to report an intruder and when they arrive he is shaken and bloody. There is a body with a smashed skull, badly burned. Grosvenor is quite ready to confess that he killed the man with the poker in self-defence, and he’s bleeding from a stab wound to the ribs and a nasty blow to the head leading to unconsciousness and concussion. Open and shut case it seems.”

There is a pause while Lestrade speaks.

“Of _course_ the coroner agreed,” Sherlock says, snidely, “He based his findings upon the evidence of the Essex police!” his voice conveys his disdain for said police, “and their _facts_. Even Anderson is more reliable than that bunch of clodhoppers.”

The sarcasm drips from the last word and John giggles a bit. Just a little bit. Sherlock’s eyes slide towards John’s face, and his own small smile makes an appearance.

“How? How do I know he’s guilty of murder? The man calling himself Professor Grosvenor is actually his murderer.”

Pause, while Lestrade remonstrates loudly.

“Yes I _know_ he’s still a recluse, yes I _know_ that he’s published several articles...he has kept in character for months, yes, in fact it was _that_ which gave him away.”

“Look Lestrade. His most recent paper described Archaeopteryx as the earliest avian fossil. The Journal of Palaeontology published it, probably because he’s such a pre-eminent specialist they don’t even read his papers before they publish. I acquired a copy of said Journal and read said article. It was then I knew. _Everybody_ knows that several much older fossils demonstrate avian features...yes, Anchiornis, Xiaotingia, among others...Of course, I deduced that this article was in fact an earlier paper which Grosvenor didn’t submit for publication, no doubt due to the inconvenient discoveries of the species which predated Archaeopteryx. He has entire filing cabinets full of unpublished articles. I don’t think he ever threw anything away.”

“Oh, didn’t I mention? Underground chamber, large,  Lestrade, beneath the false cellar. Accessible only by a hidden tunnel. Obviously created and used by smugglers in earlier times. Well hidden. Kept all his...er...accoutrements down there, that’s why the Keystone cops missed it all when their people searched the house.”

Pause.

“Oh it was much too neat, you see. We scientists – don’t roll your eyes at me, Lestrade, I can hear you from here you know – scientists have piles of stuff.  Always.  Myself included. But there was nothing in the house that referred to his career, or his passion. Not even a picture of a fossil, no scientific apparatus. His office held none of his notes or journals or papers. It seemed off, and well once I considered that he might have somewhere else for his stuff it seemed obvious that as reclusive as he was it would be somewhere close by, somewhere he didn’t have to brave the world outside to get to. It wasn’t at all difficult to work out, if you’d only observe...”

“Well, I was a little stumped on that one, until I followed him and saw the tunnel. What was a shut-in doing traipsing around via a hidden tunnel?  I was torn between following him and searching the house. So I waited till he left again and explored the tunnel.”

Sherlock holds the phone away from his ear with a wounded expression. John can hear Lestrade’s words.

“ _Yes_ , we’re still here, Lestrade, _obviously_. I’m afraid that in the rush of excitement – you really _should_ see this place, Lestrade – I forgot to close the internal door and he found me down here when he got home.”

Pause.

“His name’s Collins,” Sherlock says, irritated. “It’s obvious that he found the tunnel by chance and planned the whole thing. He’s not as stupid as some I could mention.”

“Yes, well you might want to send a car around for him.”

Pause, while Sherlock holds the phone as far away as he can.

“Yes, John’s sitting on him, but he won’t be going anywhere soon.”

Pause. “John says he’s concussed. Actually, come to think of it you’d better send an ambulance.”

Pause.

“Well he hit _me_ over the head with the clavicle of a dinosaur...not sure what breed but probably Tyrannosaurus _rex_ going by the dimensions... _yes_ I’m _getting_ to the point, Lestrade. John disarmed him  before he could do much damage and the Professor...well _not_ , as it happens, the professo....Yes, _all right_! He accidentally shot a bullet into a precariously balanced collection of bones and they collapsed on him. He banged his head on a very large fossilised femur.”  
  
Pause.

“Yes, knocked himself out,” Sherlock chirps, cheerfully. “Didn’t have to lay a finger on him!”

John giggles again, and Sherlock’s eyes are brimful of merriment.

“Oh yes, Detective Inspector, I’ve got your motive too. Seems that Grosvenor has been salting away dinosaur fossils for years – no, not for profit, just an obsessive hoarder, you should see the place. The imposter – Collins has been selling them on ebay. He’d snuck out to post the latest sales items, it seems his _sales_ were legit ... _yes_ Lestrade he has the _tracking_ numbers on him... we’ll find them.”

“Oh well, Lestrade, if we must, we must. I was hoping we could avoid the Essex plods, they make your outfit look like Einstein. You’ll talk to them then? Explain our presence. Really don’t want to spend the night in chokey, head rather sore. Oh, here they come, down the tunnel. Wouldn’t want to be quiet, would they? They might accidentally find a crime being committed.”

John looks at Sherlock fondly, at the makeshift bandage wrapped at a rakish angle around his head to keep the blood out of his eyes, at the familiar, mischievous expression on his face and his heart unfreezes finally from the horror he felt when he first saw Sherlock, bloodied and still on the floor. John’s eyes follow him as he greets the constabulary at the door and hands John’s mobile, still connected to Lestrade, to the first one in.

 In a remarkably short time the suspect is carted away, conscious but dazed (Sherlock will later identify the femur which knocked him out so usefully as that of a Diplodocus, possibly _amphicoelius_ ), which, ironically, the fake Professor was trying to sell at the time.

The two of them promise a statement will be forthcoming tomorrow, as Sherlock’s head is too sore to give one today. He winks at John when he says this, not even caring that everybody else can see the gesture. The sergeant who spoke to Lestrade sighs, gets in his car and drives away.

                                                                          xxx

Morning at Baker Street. John goes to put the kettle on and Sherlock phones Dagnar Sorensen, who is there twenty minutes later. John finds he can look at the man now without wanting to murder him, though Sorensen looks a little anxious and keeps a certain distance between them.

But John can’t help but feel sorry for the young man when Sherlock informs him that his partner is dead. Sorensen buries his face in his hands and cries. John places a cup of tea beside him, on the coffee table.

To his surprise, Sherlock is sympathetic. He awkwardly pats Sorensen’s shoulders.

“At least you know he didn’t hate you, Dagnar,” he says, quietly, and John is quite taken aback. Sherlock doesn’t _do_ sympathy.  He fights down the stirring of unease that he always feels in Sorensen’s company, and then Sherlock is beside him, holding John’s hand in his own large paw as he pulls out a document from his breast pocket.  
  
“I liberated this,” he says, handing it to Sorensen. It’s the Last Will and Testament of Compton Grosvenor. Sorensen takes it and wipes his eyes clear so he can read it. What he sees there sets him off again.

“He really did love me,” he says, “he’s made me his sole beneficiary.” He buries his face again, and says sadly into his fists; “I just want _him_. There’s nobody like him in the world. Just him. And he’s gone.”

Suddenly John is transported back to Sherlock’s death, and he knows exactly how Dagnar Sorensen feels and he remembers how lucky he’d been to have that second chance with Sherlock. He knows the man on the sofa will never have that good fortune, and all of his suspicion and resentment just fades into nothing. He finds himself sitting beside the man, one arm around his shoulders.

“I’m really sorry for your loss,” he says, and clichéd as it is he means it wholeheartedly.

He looks up at Sherlock, whose eyes for some reason are so filled with something that looks like absolute joy and whose smile is beatific, and John’s heart stops for a moment at the sentiment in his face.

Later, when Dagnar has departed, Sherlock sits on the sofa beside John and thinks about elephants, while they eat, turn the telly on for crap that they ignore, and get closer and closer, till there is no space between their bodies and their mouths, their arms and hands, and their eyes say ‘sorry’ and ‘I missed you’ and ‘stay with me’.

And it’s not that much later that John takes Sherlock to his room at the top of stairs and sets about creating new memories in his bed that welcomes them back, on the new sheets that will now hold their scent, at 221b, which is, and has been, and always will be, home.


End file.
